You Were My Everything
by Enaid Mora
Summary: This wasn't how it was supposed to go. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. He and John were supposed to grow old together.


**AN: I've recently been angsting it up like whoa. This is dedicated to bash-commands, my lovely wife. I apologize for making you sad. **

**Please review and let me know what you think. When I don't get reviews I assume people don't like it. And I love hearing feedback of all sorts.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock and angst like whoa** **with grief/death/Sherlock related triggers**

Sherlock threw the needle against the wall, howling. It had only been two days. Two days since John had been taken by the last of Moriarty's web. Two days since he watched the ghost of Moriarty kill John, trying to break him with torture first. Two days since Sherlock watched in horror as John bled out, mumbling things meant to comfort Sherlock. Two days since Sherlock had to watch his lover die unable to be there for him in his last moments, knowing John was dying, unable to help him, unable to comfort him. He watched the light leave John's eyes. He watched everything that was beautiful in the world die. He couldn't breathe, could barely think. Somehow he found Moriarty's man and killed him. It was quick and clean and Sherlock disposed of the body, leaving no traces. The spider had took what was his so he burned away the last of the spider's web. He had returned to the flat afterwards and built a pile of John's jumpers on John's bed, which had too recently become their bed. He snuggled in John's scent, refusing to accept that John could be gone. Could be dead.

Sherlock remembered a time when he didn't need anyone or anything really. The only thing that kept him going was fighting the boredom. Then John had come into his life and taken everything over. His flat, his work, his brain, his heart, his soul, his body. They were partners in every sense of the word, each other's halves. They were a hybrid, absorbing each other. Then John was gone. And it hurt. It went beyond any physical pain. It went beyond the pure superficial idea of heartbreak. His mind palace had been torn asunder. All his memories and facts relating to John had turned against him, filling his mind with sadness and regret. He couldn't stop thinking about John. His smile, his face, his trust, his eyes, his everything. His mind was broken. Everything he had ever cared about was in tatters.

He didn't even last two days before buying drugs. He was all set up to lose himself to the high in hopes that it would dull the pain of knowing he would never have John again. Never hold him, never dazzle him with his deductions, never ask him to buy milk, never snuggle up with him on the couch, never kiss his sweaty brow after a nightmare. There would be no growing old together. They wouldn't retire to a country house, keeping bees, solving the tedious, mundane mysteries and then making love in the evenings. There wouldn't be anymore of those sleepless nights of passion, clinging to each other like lifelines, trying to be as close as they could, fueled by arousal and love. No more whispered 'I love you's. No more secret smiles. No more John. But he barely got the needle under his skin before he saw John's face, his normally kind eyes disapproving. He had worked so hard to keep Sherlock clean and to have Sherlock destroy it now would be an insult to his memory.

It was too much. The sense of loss was overwhelming. It went beyond the sensation of losing a limb, of knowing he would never smile again. It was more than being haunted by the ghost of John, the memories that seemed fake with no one to share them with. Sherlock didn't deal well with emotion, he needed John to help him, to help support the load. But there was no more John. John Watson was gone and it was all his fault.

If he actually had confirmed the kill on the last man he would be in John's arms right now. His three year absence after jumping were rendered meaningless. Two months after returning home and the only thing he had ever cared about was dead.

Sherlock knew what he had to do. He pulled on John's beige jumper and his own coat and scarf and left the flat.

It didn't take long for him to get to the infamous roof, to stand on the ledge he stood on a little over three years ago, to bring his phone up to his ear. He dialed John's number, listening to the message telling him to leave a voicemail, holding John's voice in his mind. He felt the tears running down his face but ignored them. All that was important was John.

He closed his eyes and spread his arms wide, dropping his phone. He prayed to whoever was listening that there was an afterlife and that he had been good enough to share it with John.

He let himself fall, holding John's smile in his mind, letting himself be comforted by the fact that is was all going to be over. The last time he had jumped to save John. This time he jumped to save himself.

Their obituaries ran side by side in the paper. John's was short and gave a summary of his life, mentioning Sherlock. Sherlock's was just one sentence. "You were my everything and I can't live with nothing."


End file.
